A nod to Mandela - the back way to Robben Island

Can you get more iconic than that? Living the dream

 I noticed a couple of security cars parked alongside the mall entrance with their lights on as I pulled in. The car park sitting pregnant in the dark waiting for the daily onslaught of shoppers. I tried to choose one of the empty spots that would be safe for my car from arseholes with shopping trolleys and opportunists in the early morning darkness. Eenie meenie, miney … The security guards weren't interested in a polite hello, so i fumbled in the blackness for my sports bag and left my Mazda to her fate. Like a child at kindergarten. My bag and me stood by the rendezvous next to McDonalds. Blinking like an animal caught in the headlights at each car that passed. Some black guys came sauntering past, i hid my phone subconsciously and greeted them. Their response felt surprised. I'm not sure whether it was because i greeted them at all or whether it was because i was a white woman greeting black men. It felt strange and i was nostalgic for the joie de vivre of a Zambian black person who would never dream of passing anyone in that situation without a soul warming good morning. Ah well, maybe I'd changed these guys day in some small way.

A familiar squeaking of metal announced that my wait was over. Sure enough, beyond the halo of blinding light coming towards me, I could make out the boats stacked up on the trailer.  Our tail lights weren't working so we were in convoy, the other car suckered to our backside. It was a long time since I'd done that familiar journey out to Bloubergstrand. Another lifetime. By the time we pulled into Klein Bay the sun was well up, the tide out and blobs of people already parading to the island across the sand spit that i knew was there behind the water. Cool wetness beneath our feet. The bay sweeping round to the familiar house where my husband's family had lived. The sloping red roof. A car outside it. Strange memories. Happy ones and torn ones of turmoil from another time. 

We winched the boats down, a sea going quad, a double and a single. Rolling the dollies out onto the wet sand. The water was like standing in an ice bucket. My feet sending shards of nerves straight up into my head. Id forgotten the cold. Intense and invigorating, the crystalline water lapping at the edges. There wasn't a breath of wind as we pulled out through the mounds of kelp that stood up out of the water. Table mountain already in view on our stroke side as we curled around the little bay.  The island where I'd had the breath shocked out of me jumping feet first into a secret pool hidden amongst the rocks, deep ice cold. Flocks of stand up paddlers were already wobbling around in the shallows, dogs barking up and down the beach. Their voices echoing in the silence. The blobs gradually shrank, the dogs became fainter and at last it was just us and the vastness. 

The gentle gurgle of the water running out through the hatches, the slide of our seats against the runners. Blades plopping in. We passed an enormous ship that was sitting so high out of the water it looked like it was on a sandbank. The propellor almost visible as it towered up above us even from far away. Robben Island sat floating on the sea in front of us. Id looked out from the house over the years. Seen the ferry racing enthusiastic Mandela worshipper tourists from the harbour. Contemplated those prisoners incarcerated, my mind imagining. We approached with stealth - the designation unseen, behind our backs, beyond our eyes. 

Its a whale!

"There's a whale!" The cry went up. We'd stopped for a drink or to readjust a seat or something. A black mass rose up through the glass, ripples curling and sucking into whirlpools as it slipped back down again. We waited. Sitting in the silence of the ocean. Puuuuuu. Up it came again. Moving fast. Its face encrusted with a wart-like acne of barnacles. Serpentine. Its body gliding through the water, its tail fluke a perfect crescent that rose up pointing skywards before disappearing. We pulled the quad around to follow it. A great lumbering turn alongside this speed queen. Its gone… our hearts sinking..... No. There! Its there! It turned. Facing us briefly. My heart paused, vulnerable. I felt intrusive and excited and a little out of sorts. It looked. A fraction of a second look. White water foaming around it before it disappeared and left us.

Mandela's view of Table Mountain

On the glycerine water it didn't take us long to sidle up alongside Robben island. Our minds had drifted, mesmerised by the lady on our right who had seduced sailors since long before time. Reclining above the ocean as we sauntered into her iconic skyline. Suddenly it was there - i turned and looked over my other shoulder. a long, low line dotted with trees and houses. Not at all what I had in my mind. The cox slowed the boat down to drift through a morass of kelp. There was the mouth to a man-made harbour on bow side hiding behind a mound of groynes thrown up in a jumble of concrete. I felt instinctively nervous. As though we were on an illicit mission and would be accosted at gunpoint at any moment. The boat drifted into a little sandy bay alongside the harbour. Sand sharks in their dozens bursting away in great billowing clouds of brown as we waded through the shallows. This was it. The maximum security prison! Mandela's home for 18 years. I let the power of that sit with me a while as one of the other rowers headed off to inspect a very officious looking sign. 

The great arrival!

Biltong and nuts had appeared out of people's dry bags which we were devouring. Rather more interesting than my early morning grab at the bananas. "Its blank!" He reported back, my nerves calming. "Completely erased." The white sign in my vivid imagination had had it casting its officious hand threateningly at anyone who dared set foot on the island rendered harmless in the post Apartheid sunshine.

Robben Island - low lines of trees and buildings

The return trip was glorious. Retracing the route that a Khoisan strandloper with the strangely Japanese sounding name, Autshumato, had paddled. Defiantly escaping the clutches of Jan van Riebeeck back in 1660. He sounded like an enterprising man, living on the island from 1632 as postman and liaison for passing ships before developing trade in cattle between his Khoi and the Dutch back on the mainland. But his business dealings backfired, the alcohol that was part of the payment perhaps fuelling the situation. Feeling cheated he stole from the Dutch and was imprisoned by van Riebeeck for one and a half years before making his escape in a rowing boat back to the mainland.

Sliding over the icy water, suddenly we were surrounded by the explosive breaths of more whales.  One, two! Theres another one! And another! Look. You can see the blow holes - plumes of condensation bursting high above them into the air like steam train funnels. The sound reaching us a fraction of a second later.  A pair was behind us closer to the island tail fluking together and the original youngster we'd seen at first and another two closer to shore. Totally out of season - perhaps they had overwintered here. Unusually so for southern right whales.

Spot the circle to see the whale

With some leg entangled manoeuvring, I had swapped to cox midwater and was zig-zagging my way not very effectively towards Little Bay. Trying to head for the big block of flats that was the landmark where Rock Kestrels wheeled hunting swallows. I kept pushing the rudder the wrong way and having to correct. On the return leg i'd been in stroke and the crew had been annoying the hell out of me not following my timing, tugging at the boat out of turn as we juddered back to shore. Sitting in the coxswains seat was a brief respite although now I could see what was going on, the one guy not squaring.  At all! My replacement arm pulling. Oh boy. I zoned out and just sat there marvelling at the magnificence around us. The beauty of this wonderful earth and the vastness of the ocean we are blessed with. 

Forty minutes blinked by and i was guiding the boat ashore amongst the throng of seaside worshippers. I hopped onto my phone to report to the husband that i was back safely. Damn. The phone was nearly dead. There was a message waiting for me "Chased out the water by a Great White." And then the phone went blank…...

photos courtesy of the rowing crew.

Monsters in the fog

4.30 am and my brain switched on…. For a 6am row! OK, thats keen. Stepping out the door there was a chill in the air, a light mist hung enfolding the house. As I drove over the mountain and descended into False Bay there ahead of me appeared this apocalyptic mass. A black, angry cloud boiling in the bay below. Not an inch of water to be seen. Thick fog lay in an impenetrable slab from edge to edge. I dithered, checking my whatsapp. Noone had called the row off. Surely we can't go out in this? By the time I got to the naval base the others were already wheeling out the boats. I guess we are rowing in this!

The black slab of fog in False Bay

I put myself in stroke again and we headed out. Even before we reached the harbour wall the sea was pushing wedges towards us. In the murk I got disoriented and thought I saw the wreck out of the corner of my eye. We rounded the bull nose and spent the next half hour on the rinse cycle of a top loading washing machine. The boat rocking side to front, side to side, the waves merging in crests and back. My stomach increasingly queasy. My mind running wild in the blue light. Monsters rising up from where our blades had left puddles in the water. 

Yet again I had a bowman who couldn't steer. For the second time in a week we nearly rowed into the same menacing, jagged black rock that sucked at the sea. Kelp strings swirling up as the water fought against the vacuum. We zig zagged our way to windmill beach. The single waiting patiently for us and shouting out into the gloom each time we headed off course pushing him unceremoniously into a field of kelp. 

It was only once we were nearly home that I peered again at the wreck. Thats a submarine, isn't it? Immediately opposite the naval entrance it sat. Its foreboding silhouette and us. We paused in the atmospheric silence. Two sailors were cleaning one of the anti-aircraft guns on the ship at dock. Their bodies swinging in unison, sliding the rod deep into the barrel, backwards and forwards.  From somewhere inside the blue steel hull the high pitched trilling of a bosun's whistle called. whoooooeeeeeoooo trrrup trrrup trrrup peeeooooo intricately dancing across the air. It was the visiting Indian naval ship and must have been some Indian language that was being whistled to the men onboard as I'd never heard that particular tune before.

Being watched

So, yes, that's it, no regatta this weekend - I am going to Zambia after all and although mourning every day that I'll miss rowing I'm mightily excited. We will be camping deep in the bush in the very heart of my soul and if I get a chance to find internet will send off a post. It will be circuit training al fresco for me in a vain attempt to keep the rolls of fat at bay. I have my skipping rope and my exercise mat - lots of planks and squats methinks! I tried out a new aerobics class this week, that, together with kettle balls with my trainer has left my forearms almost unusable. Kettle balls are an odd concept - swinging a giant ball between your legs with your back arched and thrusting your hips forward at the finish. One has to concentrate very hard whilst not bursting into sniggers. Though its a seriously good back workout, not so sure I like the thought of having enlarged forearms. My thighs are already like godzilla wads of muscle, i don't need arms like that too!  

Chat soon folks! Hopefully from the banks of the Luangwa. Yippee!

Lumpy quad outing

I've done it! An hour in our coastal quad and my shoulders held up. Hooray!

The bay around the naval docks was deceitfully calm. A cormorant disappeared beneath the glass as we numbered off, the yachts sitting at their moorings in elegant seduction. But as soon as we poked our heads around the sea wall at what we call "The Bullnose", the ocean changed to a washing machine lumpy, confused melee of peaks bouncing us around. And in amongst that large dips cut out into the swell making our bow bang down onto the solidified waves beneath us. Water rushed over the sides and swilled around our feet. "Not sure how this is going to go," I thought to myself. The boat wasn't sitting completely square, my blade dragging along the water on stroke side. After 2 months of fine boat singling where it was me, and me only, responsible for how the boat was running, it takes a while to get used to the team effort and all the patience-testing niggles that come with that. 

With my injury I was that much more nervous of having a blade sucked into the water. The rougher it got, the harder it was for us all to level at the catch, bucking around, the waves catching one blade earlier than the other. But Stroke steadied the rate and kept the slide nice and slow. Fine boat rating, slow. We ploughed on, my blade whipped out of my hand as I fumbled to get it back and rejoin everyone else's stroke.

Ark Rock on our moonrise row a few months ago
© SafariB 2014

We headed out past Ark Rock, the enormous lone boulder where the penguins roost and the navy diving school sends their recruits to clamber up into the stinking guano and overcome their normal sense of fear by somersaulting backwards into the ocean. Belly flops and lung-winding back flops not recommended. 

After forty five minutes of ploughing through this field of water we'd finally got it together. The pressure was upped to 80% and the boat began to fly. The cox increased the rate and whoever wasn't levelling the boat was now focussed, the boat pitch perfect. The clunk of the blades and the shhhhh of the slide, clunk, shhhh, clunk, shhhh. The spoons popping out of their little pockets of water in perfect unison.

We finished off the outing with a lung searing stretch and pulled in to the boat ramp as the naval ratings were numbering off for drill.  They marched towards us looking somewhat ridiculous, one arm outstretched rigidly to their right, just the left arm swinging. "They're obviously having a hard time dressing off." I chuckled, remembering my own time on the parade ground moons ago and the stick we gave to the blokes who didn't quite get it.

***

OK, thats it folks. I have a Whatsapp message waiting for my response whether to join a sweep 8 at Misverstand Dam this weekend for a 6km heads race. My sweep is scratchy at best... The alternative is to overcome our perpetual agonising about whether to head to Zambia for our longed for soul-quenching trip to the bush before the rains.  Though the rains have now inched their way closer, cascading carpets of flowers onto the earth wherever the clouds open. Pity we're too late for the 24th October regatta on the Zambezi for the 50th anniversary of independence. But you can't do it all!

Back on the ocean waves

Same ocean, different day. Me in bow and lucky girl from all the world's most exotic islands in stroke.

Wading in thigh deep, the ocean surging gently around me, cool water tinkling at my skin. The blades felt rough and cumbersome again after 2 months on the flat. Chunky in my little hands. There is nothing elegant about getting into a coastal boat whilst its bucking around. Its a case of sliding the seat back, hand on blades, ok, heave and in. And hope that the aim with your bum is about on target. No dainty inching yourself down. A couple of quick strokes on bow side to edge her away from an ignominious crunch against the concrete boat ramp as starfish and kelp glide by in their watery case. 

I'd opted to go stroke as I was a bit dubious that my shoulder injury was up to the heavy boats again after 3 months off coastal rowing. The diagnosis had been bicep tendonitis. Ouch. For someone as determined as me that was a lesson in not pushing through the pain… for it just reinforces the injury! 

I had the whole smorgasbord of health aficionados and quacks try to fix me. On two continents. A chiropractor/physio who stuck needles into my trapezius and insisted I do pushups; an osteopath who insisted i do NOT do pushups; a biokineticist who wanted to "connect" my legs with the rest of my body; a nubile young trainer who worked wonders with rubber bands and side arm curls strengthening those atrophied muscles; and finally my sports physio in England - also nubile - who attacked those same trapezius with what felt like a pneumatic drill. Each time there was agonising "releasing" of over-taught muscles and tendons which had a mildly masochistic pleasure. 

Long and the short 
1. decades of hunching over computers (like this one) 
2. not stretching after rowing - hmmm that coffee is always more beconing and 
3. a new quackery rowing technique being lauded by the 'coach' requiring mild bum-shove and hyperextension at the catch which is supposed to be the greatest secret at making you faster. All it did to me was hit the spot and sent it all into orbit. Those bicep tendons had got shorter and shorter until they'd finally had enough.

Not a month before that I'd had a similar injury - a torn serratus anterior and other unmentionable parts across my chest - just before a regatta. Again the injury was related to exactly the same issue - weak rhomboids and over-strong shoulders (and the new technique). It all connects. 

Well I was happy to get those soggy tackies* velcroed in and back on the ocean. And this was to be my last row with C. We headed out past a flotilla of bobbing African penguins. Jack Russell sized swimming machines setting off for their morning meal somewhere in the ocean. Their black and white bodies diving and reappearing in hyperactive succession. Past the boulders which the penguins call their home, rising like behemoths out the water and into the ocean swell. Solid lines of ocean came at us in huge gulps of water. Sliding up and under as I gasped in unaccustomed horror and kept reminding myself not to be so pathetic. 

My nerves had steeled themselves for quite long enough. It was hot and my shoulder was calling out for my fine boat. Home time. We turned the boat to surf with the rolling waves as it hesitated and then ran in turn. 

Suddenly there was an almighty flutter all around us, black fins scattering. My mind went on overdrive as I saw us being engulfed by some terrible monster of the deep. Terror filled shrieks pierced the air before we realised our ridiculousness, collapsing in jelly filled belly laughs. We'd rowed straight into a pod of sleeping seals. Their flippers sticking upright out of the ocean, flopping around like a field of kelp. It was a good long while before their poor little faces appeared in the distance, snorting wide eyed at us. 



* old running shoes